


Accession

by dianekepler



Series: Perquisitum [1]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 3, Fallout 4
Genre: Abuse of Authority, Age of Consent, Angst, First Times, Fluff, M/M, Sexual Content, Undertagged, cohesion universe, protective Danse, this is a hot-button issue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-22
Updated: 2016-11-22
Packaged: 2018-09-01 11:13:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8622400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dianekepler/pseuds/dianekepler
Summary: “This is our way. I served, Danse served, even Arthur Maxson served until he acceded and called on others.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is Arthur's backstory for _Cohesion _, although it can be read as a standalone. Based on conversations with other writers I have retagged this story, but still chosen not to use the archive’s underage warning. One reason is to create some deliberately grey areas. I have also undertagged it for reasons that may become apparent towards the end.__
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>  _*** This is a work of fiction exploring issues surrounding age of consent, ability to consent, and abuse of authority. If any of this bothers you, please avoid reading this story. ***_  
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I don’t stride across the bailey with hackles raised or hands fisted. Someone would notice and the Citadel, haven though it is, circulates gossip faster than a ghoul can run. It’s not unlike how the city’s hard surfaces betray enemies before they’re seen. True, the effects of hearsay are less devastating than a mutant horde, but they are arguably as permanent. So I walk. December cuts at every inch of bare skin, but my blood is up enough that this doesn’t matter. 

Maxson’s room is still in B Ring, with the same solid door and yellowed recruiting poster over his desk. The arrangement of furniture has shifted little, despite the Elder’s quarters having changed hands three times since I was an initiate: first to Weidman, then Valdez, and now Marr. 

The _Danse_ , as I enter, falls as easily from his lips as the note must have tripped off his fingers. I don’t understand it. Arthur watches before acting, waits before speaking, and plays chess three moves in advance. Why can’t he can’t see this is not the way and I’m by no means the one? 

Sending for me — through the internal mail system, no less — to literally wait on his pleasure.

Yes, it's our tradition and, yes, I’ve already served. Any other paladin calling me like this wouldn't make me think twice. But this is Arthur. There are more issues with his proposal than we have of Guns & Ammo in the archive. 

It would be easier to look away as I list them — maybe at Arthur’s fingers barely tapping against his knees or the schematics of an airship they’re building at Adams carefully arranged along the eastern wall. But it’s important to meet his eyes as I explain, diplomatically and in terms of common sense, why this won’t work. 

Even though Valdez and Marr have made attending so common that senior officers are now enjoying a privilege once reserved for just the Elder, the service is not — and I have to skirt the issue — to be requested on a whim. Attending a superior is meant to take away from the stresses of command, especially when there are no other options. Not, I leave unsaid, to satisfy curiosity, or rid Arthur of a condition I suspect has been bothering him for a while now. 

Next, Sarah charged me with protecting Arthur. Physically being with him, whether or not he asked, seems more like the opposite. 

He is silent, then sorry. He didn't mean to offend. Will I sit with him? 

The apology is more than okay, but I stay on my feet. His bed never felt like it was mined before. But it turns out taking the offer would have been wiser. I feel punched in the the solar plexus Arthur tells me he's been sent for. By Marr.

Of the three men who've worn the three diamonds since Sarah’s died, the most recent has the lowest level of support of possibly any Elder, ever. Once held up as a compromise between a hawkish Casdin and an arthritic, stubborn Cross, Marr has taken just seven months to betray himself as rash, dismissive, and ultimately deaf towards his most seasoned officers, preferring the rarified opinions of scribes who, together, had about as much field experience as a penned-up brahmin. 

Besides, even though Marr still has plenty of active years ahead, his beard already shot with silver. Elder is a revered title but _elder_ is no understatement. 

Arthur shouldn’t. He can’t. End of story.

But trying to convince him begins a new one, an epic that reminds me of the coastline. I’m the water; he’s the changeless, rocky shore. 

My first argument, the age difference, earns me a sigh. Arthur’s been in the field since when? Trusted with life-or-death situations for how long now? He’s hardly naive. And hinting at the possible significance of this encounter cues a warning in Maxson’s eyes that not only am I right about his lack of experience, but there are things I can't mention if we’re going to stay on good terms. 

So the rest — _your first time shouldn’t be in service to anyone_ — is impossible to discuss. 

My last objection, that Marr isn’t worthy, crashes solidly against _I’ve already confirmed_. As if attending the Elder is like a pre-war social engagement with food arranged neatly on platters. No doubt Marr will want Arthur the same way — served up to his exact specifications. The idea makes my teeth ache. As Knight-Sergeant Cade keeps stressing, I work my jaw loose to avoid the headaches that come from clenching it. 

Maxson’s next question, _how should I play this_ , is strangely reassuring. Because there it is: the paladin's reason for asking me here in the first place. 

Arthur knows I’ve attended Marr. There's no way to pretend I was anywhere else on reunification night, especially when the comments about about _saving Danse for a special occasion_ were so widespread. I have Sarah to thank or blame for that, but there’s no point. Neither of us expected to be torn apart like we were. 

In any case, here is the familiar side of Arthur: the one that discovers expectations and mitigates risk. He is thinking politically — as well he should, since attending the Elder is becoming less of an honor than a tool for advancement, or, given Marr’s image these days, the top of a long slide into a raiders' den, with everyone tearing at each other. 

The back of my neck prickles and I rub at it. Young men shouldn’t have to think tactically — not for this. But given the circumstances it would help Arthur to prepare him as fully as I can.

Except I can’t. Any word that comes to mind is either too clinical, too base, or so abstract as to carry the risk of being misunderstood. It’s a relief that he doesn’t jump in, because wouldn’t that be the biggest joke — Maxson to the rescue when I’m supposed to be the advisor? I’d never use stronger language than a “hell” or “damn” in his presence, but urge to do exactly that fights it’s way around in my throat until I can’t even speak at all. 

Of course, there's a way past this. A creeping truth in Arthur’s drumming fingers and, when I meet them, in his eyes. 

But it can’t be me. Too many of our brothers and sisters already see the latest Maxson as larger than life. Until — and after — he finds his place at the head of our order, I need to be sharp, objective, and out of his personal life. I’m of little use to him otherwise. 

There’s even my own place to consider. Attending both Sarah and Marr has already been cast by some as ambition instead of duty. Does Arthur know of that? 

Of course he knows. If it means anything at all, he did think seriously about the ramifications of calling me here.

Arthur’s logic is steady. It’s the wind ahead of a radstorm, pushing along dry leaves, paper, and the waste of centuries until it's piled up in corners. Only two facts are left standing. One: Arthur needs to be prepared. Two: My reluctance shouldn’t be what’s getting in the way.

His voice is measured when it breaks into my consciousness: _two birds, Knight_. 

Fine. But only once. He nods in support — once will be enough. 

I swallow and look around for a moment. The goosenecked lamp on his desk gets a twist so its beam faces into the corner where I wish, perhaps, I could hide. Arthur stands up. He nears me. Even though the room is darker now, the curve of his lips brightens things in a different way. 

Our first kiss is so eager it flatters. Has he wanted this? I’d never imagined, sure as hell never noticed. But it’s obvious now in the active pulse underneath my fingertips. My thumb is on his scar, tracing the crescent-shaped groove. It’s meant to say that I see him. That he was right to ask. And however uncomfortable the snatches of conversation and passage of feet in B Ring make me, I'll do this. 

Lips slant and slide. Tongues challenge each other until the first rush of energy falls off and his hands start to wander, though I won’t let Arthur rush this. I’m not moving from this spot until he’s really been kissed. Until he’s been warmed, thoroughly and with care, by someone with enough patience follow the rhythm of his breathing, to map the outline of his mouth with lips just slightly parted. He needs understand how this, so often ignored during the quick engagements between duty and sleep, is the key to everything. 

Arthur might already know this because he has tricks of his own, like biting my underlip and using that pull to have at me some more. Heat flares in my groin. 

We lie down together. I slot a thigh between his, but most of my attention stays above his neck. He can touch me and does, with hands on my back and then lower, hips already moving, but I want this to be civilized. Or is it self-interest that makes me want to draw this out? It's impossible to know. 

I push his t-shirt up. Stroke from his stomach to his chest and back again. The groove between his abs is hypnotic, the skin and hair unbelievably soft. My fingers could travel that road for hours, but Arthur has started undressing and watching him distracts me again. Already tall, he has broadened a lot in the past year. The places where his right shoulder was once laid open to the bone are as dark and puckered as the matching scar on his face, and yet the motion as he takes his shirt, is fluid. I won’t be the one to tell Arthur he’s beautiful — that isn’t my place. I just run a hand down the planes of his torso and grip him through the loose drape of his shorts to confess, without words, how this is more than duty. That the the hand on his chest as he tries to lean up and kiss me again is to make him relax with eyes half-closed and really feel this. 

_Let me_ , I tell him without speaking. Let me knead that chest, friction on your nipple from the heel of my hand. Give me time to massage you until a spot blooms on the front of those standard-issue greys. Until you’re biting that full lower lip and pushing them out on exhales that start to sound frustrated. Let me make you feel good until I move us around so I can kneel on the floor between your legs and make you feel even better. 

He is salt and heat and the tang of razorgrain when you eat it raw. There are sounds, the kind that give clues as to how this might be for him, groans and gasps. He tries to move and not move — unsure about what is right — although his fingers in my hair send pinpricks down my back, and into the hearty response to what I’m mouthing. I try to set a deliberate pace, but Arthur’s pushing up into me and exploding before there’s time for much. The too-loud cry that breaks from him is at the same time seductive and so cringeworthy that my shoulders hunch. All of B Ring must have heard that. But what’s done is done and now is not a time for reprimands. 

Plus his smile, as I rise, makes me forget others even exist. 

He rearranges himself, before long. Touches me. It’s time to flip the coin. But I don’t want to see Arthur on his knees; it’s too big a reminder of his obligations. The answer is to sit ramrod straight against the headboard. It’s uncomfortable, but that hardly matters once everything starts. He’s new to this, yes, unskilled, absolutely. But the focused way Arthur goes about learning what gets the best reactions has me halfway to ruin before there’s time to get the sheets in my fists. The _fuck, Danse_ in a gravely tone I’ve never heard from the Maxson heir is so provocative I’m thinking of weapon mods to keep things going. Even so, it's all over before I’d like, with a warning that's ignored. He takes all of me. 

There is time, afterwards, for lying against each other. I can’t deny either of us the contact. The feeling of him against me is as sweet as the sincere way he presses for the debrief. _Ad victoriam_ , I quip. 

His honest laughter could be what I’ll remember most. 

Arthur wants to go on, even though there’s little sense in wearing himself out with me Or is that his plan — to obey the letter but not the spirit of the order? It seems unwise. What he wants to continue with is even more so. 

Of the hundreds of things two men can do with hands and mouths and the willing creases of their bodies, this is what Arthur suggests we move on to. It’s unfortunately something Marr is likely to want. He certainly did that night the bailey rang with celebration. To me it was a dull backdrop to the sounds our bodies made as he took me. It could have been the wine Marr was drinking, but he wasn’t particularly generous with pleasure. Or careful with me. 

My gut tightens at the idea of Arthur in my place. I want to obey nothing but those midnight eyes and accept the bottle or tube or small container that every soldier with a minute to spare and blood in his or her veins has hidden away somewhere.

We start with me on my back, supporting Arthur’s full weight. The hand with lighter duty is at the center of his back to hopefully ground him as I press the occasional kiss into the side of his neck. My eyes are closed. I’m focused on tension, relaxation, the changes in his breaths. Also on sound. A sniff at the moment of ingress, soft moans as I start to explore. 

Scent is part of the palette. His clean, pungent body as Arthur grinds into the channel where I’m frogged out at one hip. We could stop at this. I’m convinced it’s for the best and propose it, though I’m undermined by an even sultrier tone of voice and the way he ruts against me. By the way he swears into the rough linen underneath us as he spills again, as if anticipating or wanting to be closer made him lose control. 

It doesn’t concern me; he can be ready again later. Meanwhile, I give him warmth and low instructions. He needs to bear down and more importantly hold still during the minutes-long plunge with breaks for air and acclimation. Once we're together, I can’t begin to put words to how intense it feels, how right. How everything I’d warned against will come true if I don’t stay away from him forever after this night. 

When I roll my hips, the hot-magma feeling wells up in me and pushes a word out of Arthur. I want to tell him not to. That it’s too much, to hear my name when we’re this connected. Then he calls for more and my brain short-circuits. I’m just an appendage of his will, rocking ever so gently as his groans become louder and more full of need. 

I put a hand over his mouth. One of his follows, not to peel it away, but to make sure I clamp down harder. Assured of safety, I curl more tightly against him, focus every scrap of effort not involved in controlling myself to watching reactions. Where we’re joined is the axis of the world. The lightning strikes of my climax belong to him. Every twitch of every nerve and buzz of my brain, all of it. 

In the end he forgets himself, or I do. He says my name one more time. There’s no way to stop or even wish it hadn’t happened because the aftershocks are nearly as intense the first surge and I'm not verbal. 

It’s only later, when my heart has stopped bruising the inside of my chest, when Arthur and I have spoken and dressed and his lingering fullness is hidden, that I understand the long game. Arthur will serve, and capably, but what happened in the hours before he attended Marr will be all over the Citadel by morning. 

The smirks, the eye rolls, especially the jolt as Paladin Vargas claps me good-naturedly on the shoulder on my way to my breakfast tell me the story couldn’t have gotten farther if Three Dog had broadcast it on GNR last night. It’s daunting being in the public eye again, although hardly what anyone would call a sacrifice. Not even me, if it helped Arthur at all. 

He is in the mess hall, acting very much himself, at least from what I can see from several tables away while trying not to look. It’s only over days that the truth comes out and my hard-won sense of relief fades to black. 

Acting was the operative word. 

The difference isn’t obvious as marks on his body or a change in gait. Only someone who has been watching Arthur since he was a child would see the dullness in his eyes, how they don’t meet others’ as long or as frankly as they did just a week ago. How he seeks solitude the way he did after Sarah’s death. 

Alarm bells go off when Vargas, on the way across the training yard, bestows on him that same show of camaraderie that he gave me the first morning. Arthur flinches — something I’ve never seen in my life. I’m kneeling in power armor, firing at a moveable target and it’s only by chance that I even notice the reaction, or the look that Vargas gives Paladin Bael, who is drilling us. Or the way Bael’s expression darkens and she nods. 

I’ve been staying out of Arthur’s way to keep rumors to a minimum. But I have to see him now. Bael and Gunny keep me occupied with a thousand things until just before lights out and by that time I’m nearly frantic to speak with Arthur about what the hell happened after we parted ways. The duty rosters show I’m in the field for the next two weeks. If I don’t see him tonight ….

On my way to his quarters I run into Star Paladin Cross. Normally furious when anyone so much as hints she needs assistance, she has me escort her to the Great Hall to help look for some misplaced piece of paperwork. Her slow shuffle is torture. But her eyes, dark as the chipped wood laminate of the tables, are clear and bright. Her voice, once we’re alone, brooks no argument. She tells me to go straight to my bunk and stay there. That the less I’m involved right now the better.

It’s only after my tour, once news about the terrible accident meets me at the gate, that full meaning of her statement makes sense. 

It 's why there are no detractors, even among Marr loyalists, from Arthur Maxson’s accession to the role of Elder.

**Author's Note:**

> [Coincidental art](https://kepl3rian.tumblr.com/post/154397996302/pain-art-like-pain-that-just-keeps-on-going), of rising to power, perhaps.


End file.
